Metallic Wolf Pandaemonium
by SchrodingersDuck
Summary: Steampunk AU take on Metal Wolf Chaos, moved from 21st Century America to 19th Century Britain. Michael Wilson is now Sir Michael Wilsonne, Prime Minister, fighting against the evil Earl Richard Hawkswich. Pastiche of Victorian literature and Mecha games.
1. A Scoundrel's Betrayal

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_In Which Earl Richard Hawkswich, Being of Treacherous Mind, Does Betray Her Britannic Majesty's Government and Her Faithful Servant Sir Michael Wilsonne Through Cruel Trickery And A Most Ungentlemanly Coup  
_

* * *

The butler carefully polished the immaculate grandfather clock that stood in the corner of the drawing room at 10 Downing Street.

"I say", said Earl Richard Hawkswich, as the maid poured another freshly brewed cup of India's finest into the glistening white china porcelain in front of him, "nothing like sipping some delicious Darjeeling tea, and watching you getting your clock cleaned".

"Quite", replied Sir Michael Wilsonne, who was currently leafing through a pile of Home Office reports on the unrest that was sweeping the country. Poverty was at an all time high, and public dissatisfaction over the Crimean War and the Indian Mutiny had created a highly unstable powder keg. All it would take would be one small spark, and the entire country could dissolve into anarchy.

"It's so tiresome how the masses act in such a petty manner of such a minor issue, wouldn't you say, Richard?"

Sir Wilsonne had fought on the frontlines of the Opium War, serving as a commander in one of Isambard Kingdom Brunel's new fangled steam-powered mechanised armoured perambulating humanoid. Hawkswich meanwhile had been a general, sitting in a comfortable office many miles away drinking his precious Darjeeling tea. Wilsonne had always felt a degree of resentment towards him for precisely this reason, and sensed that Hawkswich likewise reciprocated the feeling - not least because Sir Wilsonne, as one of her Imperial Majesty Queen Victoria's most favoured subjects, had effortlessly worked his way to Prime Minister, while Hawkswich, even his vicious political manouevering, had only ever been able to climb as high as Chancellor of the Exchequer.

"I understand completely how you feel, Prime Minister. Anyway, if you may excuse me, I have other business to attend to", Hawkswich said, finishing his tea with a most ungentlemanly gulp and clambering to his feet. Hawkswich's rakish appearance and short temper was cause for concern enough for a Prime Minister concerned with improving his party's standing among the upper classes of London, but this was the first time Michael had felt genuinely anxious about his Chancellor's behaviour. Wilsonne pressed the finely polished brass button on his desk, and almost immediately, an elegantly dressed woman carrying a stack of papers entered. Judith Crawford, the daughter of Lord and Lady Crawford, had been one of the beautiful debutantes, but her parents' hopes that she would settle down and marry a rich aristocrat had been dashed by her political streak, which had lead her to join Wilsonne's government as his secretary, not to mention the rumblings in some of the less respected tabloids of Fleet Street of a most scandalous relationship between the Prime Minister and her.

"Miss Crawford, have the men ready the Metallic Wolf unit", Wilsonne told her, as he donned his military finery.

"It looks like a fancy ball is about to start", Judith replied, as she tapped away at the telegraph machine that stood on the sideboard amidst the neo-Greecian statuettes that lined the room. "This kind of ball is a first for me".

With a hiss and a stream of high pressure steam, the far wall of the office swung to the ground, revealing a 9-foot tall steam powered automaton glinting in the dim gas light. Cannons, mortars and even some of those new fangled "Gatling guns" from the Americas all bristled on the solid iron shoulders of the whistling giant. Wilsonne laced his boots and clambered aboard. At that moment, a rushing roar echoed up the stairwell outside - a gas main had burst and been set aflame. There were shouts and muffled gunfire from outside, and Wilsonne knew it could only mean one thing: Hawkswich had betrayed him. Michael fired up the boilers and launched the "Metallic Wolf" straight out of the second floor window onto the street below.

Hundreds of light infantrymen and grenadiers were storming Downing Street. As Metallic Wolf hit the cobblestones below with an ungodly boom, the entire squadron turned to face it, with a brief look of abject horror on their faces, before a spray from the left Gatling gun mowed down half the unit. A sudden explosion knocked Metallic Wolf off its feet - more grenadiers were lobbing bombs from hot air balloons floating unreachably high in the sky. Armoured horse-drawn wagons pulled up at the gates of Downing Street, weighed down with dozens of heavy artillery shells. So many distant, heavily armoured enemies would be impossible even for Metallic Wolf to beat. As Wilsonne's finger hovered over the eject button, however, the telegraph printer spluttered into life, clanking away as it spewed out a roll of paper from Judith.

"Dear Sir STOP The people outside look somewhat ungodly STOP Make your escape via the Bulldog train in the Underground Metropolitan Railway STOP The entrance is currently being opened STOP"

With a creak, the street split apart, revealing a dank shaft lined with flickering gas lamps. Metallic Wolf jumped down the hole, disappearing in a cloud of dense steam. An echoing clang and a harsh whistle from within the shaft indicated Metallic had managed to land successfully in the train, which was now chuffing furiously out of the tunnel and onto the London and South Western Railway.

"I don't know who these forces represent STOP But whoever they represent I presume has currently been erased from one's Yuletide correspondents STOP", read the paper that was once again rolling out of the telegraph machine.

Michael rolled down the sash window of the cabin and looked out. Much to his chagrin, he noticed Hawkswich's own automaton standing at the edge of the tracks. With a click, the semaphore flags on the machine popped into place and began gesticulating wildly.

"M-I-C-H-A-E-L. H-A-H-A-H-A-H-A"

Wilsonne pressed the semaphore button in his automaton and responded in kind.

"R-I-C-H-A-R-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D" he typed, as the Chancellor's machine disappeared from view.


	2. A City's Upheaval and Subsequent Rescue

* * *

_In Which Sir Michael Wilsonne Does Visit the Fine And Prosperous City Of Liverpool, And Thereafter Proceeds To Engage In Battle With the Nefarious Captors Thereof_

* * *

Only through judicious application of the emergency brakes was the locomotive driver able to bring the speeding Bulldog to rest beneath the stately gothic glass arches of Liverpool Lime Street. Now dressed in his finest casual wear – a smart black double-breasted frock coat, with a gold-flecked waist-coat and a freshly pressed silk cravat underneath – Michael dis-mounted with utmost care from the mahogany panelled carriage and paced towards the station entrance, from which he could just the multitude of noises that rose from Liverpool's bustling street market. Behind him, porters lifted heavy wooden crates from the flatbed goods wagon, unaware that those boxes contained the many mechanical components of the Metallic Wolf.

As he approached the elegant rusticated door-way, Michael's eye was attracted by the most unusual sight of a young street urchin bedecked in a Doncaster Nightly News sandwich-board. The Doncaster Nightly News was a cheap muckraking rag of most ill-repute, yet here it was, being sold on the con-course of one of the finest railway termini in the Empire – many miles away from Doncaster, Michael noted.

"One an' ha'p'nny f'r a paper, Sar?" asked the urchin, holding the beige sheet in front of Michael's face. "Read all aba'at Richard 'awkswich an' 'is glorious rescue o' Bri'ain from the evil Michael Wilsonne!"

Michael's eyes boggled at the lurid headlines of the paper. All of them were praising that vainglorious fool Earl Hawkswich! It was all Michael could do to stop himself cursing out loud "that damnable pismire!" – a most discourteous thing to say, especially in front of such a youth.

"I'll take one, thank you very much."

Michael fished in his pocket for a shiny new shilling and tossed it to the urchin, whose eyes boggled at the finely polished silver coin.

"Why thank ye' ever so much, Sar!" the urchin yelped with not inconsiderable glee as Michael helped himself to a copy of the newspaper. He began to read the leader article, penned by one Peter MacDonald.

_To my beloved fellow Englishmen, Scots, Irish and other inhabitants of the realm. To our regret, this Britannic Empire is at the point of crisis! Since 1845, rebellion from anarchists and related scofflaws have increased at a great rate indeed, and trade disputes originating from taxation on commodities have instead taxed this Albionic state! Neither the current Prime Minister, nor his cabinet, took actions to address these problems!_

_On the contrary, they have filled their own pockets, adhering to gas-light treachery! To correct this situation, Third Earl of Bromsley and Locksborough, Richard Hawkswich, Crimean War hero, rose to the task at hand! Much like our ancestors did, based in a belief in the righteousness of our monarchy and her Britannic Majesty Queen Victoria!_

Michael tossed the news-sheet onto the soot-coated ballast of the railway – the slanderous libels printed thereon were not worth his time to read. More concerning was the very fact that such libels had reached Liverpool at all.

There was a scream from the street outside. A platoon of soldiers was vigorously beating senseless a demonstrator outside. Michael looked closer, and noticed that the man had dropped a sign reading "Down with Richard Hawkswich". Suddenly, a voice in the crowd shouted "'ere, there's that Michael Wilsonne!". The soldiers looked up, caught sight of Michael standing in the doorway, and shouted "Stop, in the name of Earl Richard Hawkswich!". All pandaemonium broke lose, as passersby threw themselves towards Michael, the soldiers, or just at each other in a desperate bid to egress from the line of fire. Michael managed to break free from the crowd and ran back to the train.

"We need to assemble the Metallic Wolf, now!" he commanded. Instantly, dozens of loyal members of the Royal Engineers cracked open the heavy crates and began assembling the oversized mechanised armour. Behind them, a squadron of guards engaged in a firefight with the platoon of villainous and treacherous soldiers, holding the group back and buying Michael precious extra time.

Working quickly, the engineers were able to have the machine assembled, oiled, fuelled, watered and heated in record time, and less than half-an-hour later, Michael was able to climb into the cabin. He pulled out the Marconi radio-telegraph and typed out a message to Judith: "I have arrived in Liverpool STOP Have found it overrun with Hawkswich's men STOP And now I'm going to TAKE BRITAIN BACK STOP"

Almost immediately, a ribbon of paper emerged from the machine, bearing Miss Crawford's reply:

"Those most befuddling soldiers are coming in swarms STOP Blunderbusses with a wide firing area or Gatling guns with a high fire rate are effective here STOP"

Six rounds rapid from the flintlock carbine mounted on the side of the Metallic Wolf were amply sufficient to clear the area of enemy soldiers, allowing Michael enough room to manoeuvre the mighty automaton towards the exits which, with the help of a volley of mortar shells, were made large enough for the machine to fit through.

From here, Michael was able to observe a large guntower which had been most hastily assembled atop the Lyceum. With a blast of steam from the safety valves, he dashed towards the port, smashing through the many market stalls that lay abandoned in the street.

As he approached the dockside however, there was a burst of Gatling gun fire, and Michael felt the Metallic Wolf lurch violently. He looked up and saw enemy soldiers firing from makeshift gun platforms assembled on the trains of the Liverpool Overhead Electric Railway.

"The enemy forces have even captured Liverpool's Overhead Railway STOP" typed Judith. "We can't let these symbols of British engineering progress remain in Hawkswich's hands STOP"

Michael pulled the hefty brass lever on the middle of the fine oak instrument board before him. With an almighty boom, an artillery shell burst forth from the exquisitely crafted wide-bore howitzer built in the chestplate of the automaton and flew in a perfectly parabolic curve towards the elevated tracks of the railway. The structure collapsed in a plume of concrete dust and loose macadam.

Michael darted past towards the Lyceum, as another message was spewed out of the telegraph.

"For such a long time, I've been wondering how fine a prospect that most comely building would become were it to be demolished STOP I offer my sympathies to the owner but, let us level it ourselves STOP".

Michael dispatched a salvo of shells at the neo-Grecian exterior of the Lyceum, sending masonry and fractured pipework tumbling towards the ground. Another volley was sufficient to damage the guntower enough to render it inoperable.

Before Michael had a chance to rest, however, there was a sudden rumble of something rolling up the road towards him. He turned, and was confronted with a behemoth of a machine: an armour plated artillery platform, powered by steam.

With a thunderous roar, the machine let off a rapid series of blasts, and Michael felt the awful thuds of heavy metallic shells impacting against the armour plating of the automaton. Michael pulled the shiny brass trigger inside the cockpit, releasing a rapid volley of bullets from the Metallic Wolf's Gatling gun. Despite his best efforts, however, even the carborundum-plated bullets made nary a scratch upon the dense alloy of the armoured plates.

The telegraph began buzzing again, furiously tapping out another message from Judith: "That mischievous boy should be given a Prime Ministerial diet, wouldn't you agree, Sir STOP He's had too many fine mincemeat pies so give him a tip and make mincemeat out of him STOP"

Michael pulled back a heavy iron plate on the cabin wall and pushed down hard on the plunger inside. There was a loud hiss from deep within the bowels of the Metallic Wolf, followed by the sharp whistle of 100 armour-piercing nitro-glycerine grenades soaring through the air. There was a moment of silence, followed by the briefest "click" as the grenades met their target. There was a flash of light , and an earsplitting explosion followed, the wave-shock from which was sufficient to knock back even the Metallic Wolf, which weighed nigh on 350 hundredweight.

The smoke began to clear, but Michael's view was still obscured by a thick layer of soot and dust that had formed on the glass screen-wind of the vehicle. He pulled open the window of the machine, and gazed over the scene of carnage that lay before him. All that was left of the armoured artillery was a fractured and warped heap of scorch-marked pig iron, with a long, bent, dented barrel just barely poking out of the top.

The telegraph began to twitch and twitter once again: "All in a day's work, Sir Wilsonne STOP"

Michael pulled out the typewriter keyboard and replied. "Alas no I fear STOP The fight will maintain STOP As long as the Britain inside my heart is still alive STOP"


	3. The Betrayal and Kidnap of Judith

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_In which we learn of the tyranny imposed by the coup d'état government and Judith does get kid-napped by forces working for the insidious Richard Hawkswich, requiring her rescue from the top of the tower of the Minster of York_

_

* * *

  
_

Smoke rose in graceful swirls from the muzzle of the gargantuan revolver that was built into the anthropoid frame of Michael's steam driven automaton. Around him, burning vehicles lay arrayed in a disorderly manner, and soldiers pock-marked with injurious wounds stumbled about in a daze of haemorrhagic origin. Loose leaves of newspaper, charred around the edges, drifted through the bullet riddled streets of York.

With a click, the interlocks on the pilot's cabin slid out of place and the door swung open, letting a breeze of cool sulphurous vapours flood the cock-pit of the Metallic Wolf.

Clambering down the red-painted wrought iron ladder than ran over the chest and abdomen of the Metallic Wolf, Michael paused to survey the area. A sheet of newspaper, printed in thick smudgy block capitals, flew at Michael who snatched the loose floating paper from the atmosphere.

_A NEW DECREE FROM OUR BRAVE AND HEROIC LORD PROTECTOR RICHARD HAWKSWICH_

_To our regret, the most heinous anarchist known as the Metallic Wolf continues to spread pandæmonium through the Britannic Realm. Please remember any of the names or faces of any of the ringleaders who instigated this anarchy. Public hangings will be held for anyone found to have been associated with these rapscallions, along with members of their family at up to four degrees of separation, workshopmates and acquaintances. A heart of righteousness is a heart that feels an affection towards the United Kingdom. This has been Peter MacDonald writing for the Doncaster Nightly News._

Michael screwed the sheet into a tightly packed sphere and threw it into a nearby conflagration, watching as the propaganda paper combusted, rapidly decaying into flakes of black carbonic matter.

With a crash, a mahogany grand pillow smashed through the wattle-and-daub wall of a nearby Tudor house. Only by his feline reflex was Michael able to jump backwards rapidly enough to avoid the rapidly plummeting instrument that shattered on the cobbled streets below, scattering loose wires and sharp splinters of dark wood across the road. Michael leapt into the cabin of the Metallic Wolf and shut the door as shots rang out from the windows.

"Curses!" he muttered to himself. "I must have been betrayed."

The telegraph began to click, picking a message out from the luminiferous æther as bullets ricocheted off the armour plating of the automaton.

"Hahahahaha STOP Wondering who betrayed you STOP It was your belovéd secretary STOP We captured her with her bodyguards STOP If you want to see them again then come to the Minster STOP"

A quick spray from the phlogiston gun was sufficient the clear the area of assailants. Michael opened the throttle wide and sped off down the Shambles in a cloud of scalding steam and coal gas. As he approached York Minster, he could clearly see a stagecoach dangling from the top of the tower.

A message rattled out of the telegraph, streams of letters printed upon the reams of thick white paper that rolled out of the rattling mechanism.

"Sir Wilsonne STOP Why did you come to save us after we betrayed you STOP"

Michael pulled out the Morse code button and began typing back a response.

"I can't abandon an acquaintance STOP And the reason is because I am the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland STOP"

"Don't come near STOP It's a tra…"

A dark shadow was cast across the town square. Michael looked up to see a massive hot air balloon hanging from the sky over the city. Two great semaphore flags dangled from the basket.

"G-R-E-E-T-I-N-G-S T-H-E-R-E M-I-C-H-A-E-L"

"R-I-C-H-A-R-D!" replied Michael.

A massive gun platform rumbled into the plaza directly at his rear, bristling with dozens of self-loading Gatling guns and mortar cannons.

"Y-O-U A-N-D Y-Y-O-U-R M-E-N A-N-D T-H-I-S S-Y-M-B-O-L O-F F-A-I-T-H W-I-L-L A-L-L B-E B-L-O-W-N T-O S-M-I-T-H-E-R-E-E-N-S!"

The clock in York Minster began to chime, casting great resonant peals through the medieval streets of the sprawling city.

"O-H T-I-M-E F-O-R M-Y A-F-T-E-R-N-O-O-N T-E-A" Richard typed, turning away from the city. "N-O-T-H-I-N-G L-I-K-E S-I-P-P-I-N-G S-O-M-E D-E-L-I-C-I-O-U-S D-A-R-J-E-E-L-I-N-G T-E-A A-N-D W-A-T-C-H-I-N-G Y-O-U G-E-T-T-I-N-G Y-O-U-R C-L-O-C-K C-L-E-A-N-E-D!"

Michael fired off a volley of shots at the rapidly retreating balloon but it was by now too far distant, and the bullets fell far short. He turned to look at the slowly approaching gun platform. With an infernal boom, a ball of flames erupted from the barrel of the largest mortar, slamming against the magnesium limestone of the cathedral tower.

A rapid torrent of pellets issued forth from the mouth of the Gatling gun mounted on the Metallic Wolf, but the projectiles bounced harmless off the armoured plate. Another message clicked over the telegraph device, from Judith's bodyguard.

"Aim for the legs first STOP That's an ironclad battle technique STOP But remember there's many a slip atwixt the cup and the lip STOP"

Michael pulled back a well-polished bronze knob, and an enormous cylinder filled with nitroglycerine arced from the Metallic Wolf onto the gun platform, shattering against the wheels of the machine. The mighty device slewed sideways, disabled. Running forward, Michael used the Metallic Wolf to lift the machine over his head, spinning it around him faster and faster.

"How do you consider me now!?" he roared, as the artillery slipped from his hands and splashed into the River Ouse, coating the waterfront with a fine spray of muddy brown water.

"Sir Prime Minister STOP" clicked the machine.

"It's okay Judith STOP At least you're safe STOP"

"Ohhhhh STOP Sir Prime Minister STOP"


	4. The Perversion of Artilleries is Stopped

* * *

_Wherein Michael Wilsonne Does Voyage To The Isle Of Man And Destroy The Artillery There Mounted_

_

* * *

  
_

With a most laboured ticking, a fresh ream of paper streamed out of the telegraph, spooling in loose ribbons across the cabin of the _Metallic Wolf_. Michael picked it up and carefully read it, making keen use of his Morse code skills, originally learned serving in the Opium Wars.

"Sir Wilsonne STOP Our operatives working within Her Majesty's General Post Office have come into possession of a confidential communiqué concerning the Mann Cannon STOP Earl Hawkswich may wish to use this cannon, designed to counter anarchistic violence, to attack much of our beautiful east coast STOP Carlisle, Barrow-in-Furness and even Blackpool, jewel of the Irish Sea, are under threat from this renegade howitzer STOP"

"I'm on my way STOP" replied Michael, releasing the steam valve that powered the gargantuan iron limbs of the _Metallic Wolf_. Travelling at the nearly inhuman speed of two score miles per hour, the Lake District rushed past the portholes of the _Metallic Wolf_ in an indistinct blur.

Leaping onto a waiting ironclad, Sir Wilsonne steamed across the inclement waters of the Irish Sea towards the Isle of Man. From its peak, Snaefell, which rose ominously out of the sea, perched a vast reinforced steel tube close to three furlongs in length, gleaming malevolently in the cloud-dappled sunlight which hung in curtains from the cinereous sky.

As the boat approached the dock at Douglas harbour, Michael heard a most considerable rumble emanate from deep within Snaefell. A rush of steam billowed forth from the generator halls, growing from the mountainside like fungus does grow on rocks.

"The Mann Cannon has started to reload STOP An artillery of this side will take approximately 10 minutes to recharge STOP"

Knowing time was of the essence, Sir Wilsonne raced along the tracks, normally reserved for the horse tram and the new electrified railcars, up the side of the peak. As he approached the once quiet hamlet of Laxey, he caught glimpse of the vast Laxey wheel which stood unabashed against the harsh sea winds. Once the wheel had driven the water pumps that cleared the mines beneath the island – now it was the heart of the iniquitous Hawkwich's diabolical culverin. Feeling a sea of regret rise up in his solar plexus, he light the fuse of his missile rocketry system. Babbage Difference Engines creaked and groaned beneath him as the targeting system calculated the optimal firing angle.

With a terrible din, a "grenade" – a new weapon imported from the Orient, consisting of a saltpetre charge which can detonate to devastating effect – erupted from the _Metallic Wolf_ and slammed in the Laxey Wheel. A flash of light as bright as Helios himself shone out, as a cloud of brimstone in the appearance of a mushroom grew languidly from the immense void where, just a few brief moments ago, a waterwheel had stood.

The cannon creaked but, alas, its steady reloading was not stalled, merely retarded momentarily. Michael sighed and heaved the _Metallic Wolf_ into gear once more. Rasping against the rusty, granular surface of the armour plating, the unmentionable limbs of the device swung back into life, transmitting the mechanical contraption to the summit.

The site that greeted Michael at the summit horrified him. All around him, vast pig iron barrels hissed and groaned under the incredible pressure of the steam contained therein. It would only be a matter of minutes until the gun fired.

Working as quickly as he could, Michael scattered an array of "grenades" across the area. One by one, they exploded, blowing gaping wounds into the structure of the tanks of steam. Vapours whistled out, filling the area with a great fog.

Suddenly, the radio news wire in the corner of the cabin began to hum into life, beating out a staccato rhythm on the bell inside.

"- .... . / -- --- ... - / . ...- .. .-.. / .- -. .- .-. -.-. .... .. ... - / -- . - .- .-.. .-.. .. -.-. / .-- --- .-.. ..-. / .... .- ... / .- - - . -- .--. - . -.. / - --- / --. .- .. -. / -.-. --- -. - .-. --- .-.. / --- ..-. / - .... . / -- .- -. -. / -.-. .- -. -. --- -. / ... - --- .--. / - .... .- -. -.- ... / .... --- .-- . ...- . .-. / - --- / - .... . / -... .-. .- ...- . / -- . -. / --- ..-. / - .... . / -... .-. .. - .. ... .... / .- .-. -- -.-- --..-- / - .... . / --. ..- -. / .... .- ... / -... . . -. / ... ..- ..-. ..-. .. -.-. .. . -. - .-.. -.-- / ... .- -... --- - .- --. . -.. / - --- / .--. .-. . ...- . -. - / .. - / ..-. .-. --- -- / ..-. .- .-.. .-.. .. -. --. / .. -. - --- / .... .. ... / .... .- -. -.. ... / ... - --- .--. / - .... .. ... / .... .- ... / -... . . -. / .--. . - . .-. / -- .- -.-. -.. --- -. .- .-.. -.. / ..-. --- .-. / - .... . / -. . .-- / . -..- .--. . .-. .. -- . -. - / -.. --- -. -.-. .- ... - . .-. / -. . .-- ... / .-- .. .-. . / .-- .... . .-. . / -.-- . ... --..-- / - .... . / .--. . -. / .. ... / ... - .. .-.. .-.. / -- .. --. .... - .. . .-. / - .... .- -. / - .... . / ... .-- --- .-. -.. / ... - --- .--."

Michael rapidly translated this in his head thusly:

"_The most evil anarchist Metallic Wolf has attempted to gain control of the Mann Cannon STOP Thanks however to the brave men of the British Army, the gun has been sufficiently sabotaged to prevent it from falling into his hands STOP This has been Peter MacDonald for the new experiment Doncaster News Wire where yes, the pen is still mightier than the sword STOP_"

Michael sighed. It seemed like he was still far from defeating the devious Hawkwich and ending his reign of disinformation which polluted the land like the scourge of cholera.


End file.
